


Forwards, Backwards

by yungdreams



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Prose Poem, Short, softcore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 15:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7646989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yungdreams/pseuds/yungdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A loosely-structured and extremely short prose-poem take on Widowmaker and Tracer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forwards, Backwards

The night air was sweltering, wet and humid. There was something enticing about Tracer.

  
They were in Vientiane. Tracer had found her.

  
To move backwards, said the pilot, was agony. The sniper knew only forward momentum, of rounds piercing her targets, their bodies falling like stones. The sniper imagined moving backwards. It would be bliss.

  
The little pilot smelled of phosphor pulse ammunition, sweat. The sniper only perspired when she needed to.

  
The pilot's body was thin, all steel wire muscle. Her abdominal muscles were tight as a washboard. Her breasts were small, her nipples dark. Across her face, freckles stippling her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

  
Amelie did not know what she felt. It was not love. The little pilot did not make her feel love.

  
The pilot was nervous when the sniper peeled the uniform from her prey's body. Her hands shook. Her trunk quivered. She danced the little dance of the webbed fly.

  
The night air was cold, crisp and paralyzing. There was something irresistible about Tracer.

  
They were in Arkhangelsk. Amelie had found her.

  
Their breath rose in white curls as they danced around one another.

  
The sniper smelled of semoprene and leather. Her body was cold to the touch, purplish-blue, dotted here and there with scars, with the topography of a hired killer.

  
Amelie did not know what she felt. It was not affection. The little pilot did not make her feel affection.

  
The little pilot was not quivering in the embalming chill. She flinched only when the sniper slipped her fingers around the clasp to the chronal accelerator. The pilot's grip was fierce as a sighthound's bite. The sniper's grip was firm yet soft, unfurling and uncovering.

The sniper's breath was cold on the pilot's neck, on her stomach, between her thighs.

  
The night air was wet with the downpour of rain. There was something familiar about Tracer.

  
They were in Maracaibo. They had found one another.

  
Their bodies were rain-slicked. Their breath, hot and cold.

  
The pilot laughed, giggled, screamed. Her voice was washed away with the rain. Her tongue traced a thousand stories across the sniper's body, of little-lives washed away each time she jumped backwards.

  
The sniper dug her hands into the pilot's hair, twisting and pulling.

  
Amelie knew what she felt. It was control. The little pilot had let the sniper hold her, twist her, guide her.

  
The night air was still, not a breath of wind. There was something dangerous about Tracer.

  
They were in Ypres. Amelie had followed her.

  
Amelie did not know what she felt. It was not happiness. The little pilot did not make her happy.

  
Here, a gunshot. Here, to move forward. The clawhead round arced across the courtyard and through the little pilot's throat.

  
Their bodies moved in different directions. Here, a blue flash.


End file.
